


Covet

by basurahan



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M, WIP Amnesty, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:53:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25544671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basurahan/pseuds/basurahan
Summary: He's expecting Eduardo to go for a handshake, so he's caught off-guard when Eduardo touches his arm instead, right above the elbow.  Strangers don't touch Mark because they're strangers, and friends don't touch Mark because he's Mark.  This kind of familiar touch is . . . unfamiliar."We should do this again sometime," says Eduardo.  It sounds like a question.[Abandoned in 2012: missing the third act, but contains the complete epilogue.]
Relationships: Christy Lee/Eduardo Saverin, Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Covet

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the [TSN kinkmeme](http://tsn-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/12119.html?thread=21566295#t21566295), abandoned in late 2012. I have essentially no recollection of writing this (or of, apparently, injuring my hands in the course of writing it), but I figured I might as well post it here for people to enjoy(?).

_And how do we begin to covet? Do we seek out things to covet? No. We begin by coveting what we see every day._

\-- 

There is someone knocking on Mark's front door. Loudly and persistently, like they have important business with him, and while Mark respects the sanctity of human life he thinks he could probably strangle the knocker to death right now without any remorse. He feels like he's only just gotten to sleep.

The knocking pauses just long enough for Mark to drift off, only to return with a vengeance. "Fuck off," he groans, scrubbing a hand across his face. It's not the UPS guy, because the last time the UPS guy woke him up Mark cussed him out, it's unlikely to be the police, and it definitely isn't Dustin or Erica because both of them have keys and never bother knocking, anyway. 

Then again, it could be Chris, who _does_ bother knocking, or Sean, who will never have a key if Mark can help it. Mark drags himself up from the couch, considers putting on pants, and decides the sight of his pale, skinny nerd‑legs is apt punishment for waking him up at the ungodly hour of 9:30 am. 

Upon opening the door, he discovers that:

1\. the offending person is actually two offending persons  
2\. both of whom are painfully attractive and  
3\. smiling at Mark like they're genuinely happy to see him.

"Can I help you?" says Mark.

"I'm sorry, I hope we didn't wake you," says the man, who is tall, tan, and wearing a suit in the middle of August. He holds out his hand for Mark to shake, and Mark takes an immediate dislike to him. 

"I'm Christy," says the woman. She's East Asian, about a foot shorter than her friend, and wearing what looks like an entire department store's worth of jewelry. She doesn't comment on Mark's lack of pants or try to shake his hand, for which he's grateful. "This is my husband, Eduardo. We just moved in next door."

Great. New neighbors. "I guess that explains all the crashing furniture noises, then," he says, striving for pleasant. "I'm Mark. Welcome to Cupertino." 

They make small talk about the weather ‑‑ of all things ‑‑ for a few more agonizing minutes before Christy's phone starts going off. "I have to take this," she says, "but you need to come over for dinner sometime, Mark. Eduardo makes the _best_ chicken marsala."

"Aw, Chris, stop it." Eduardo ducks his head for a second, but he's obviously smiling. To Mark, he says, "It was really nice to meet you," and reaches out to shake his hand again.

"Sure," says Mark, already itching with impatience. When they leave, he grabs a pop‑tart and boots up his computer; he's already awake, he might as well do something productive. They've got a code push coming up soon and there are only so many hours in the day, and Mark intends to spend as many of them working as possible.

\-- 

He doesn't expect Eduardo to come around four days later, so he's similarly undressed and sleep‑deprived when he pulls open the door. "What," he says, blinking into the afternoon sunlight.

Eduardo actually draws back a little, and Mark wonders what his expression looks like. "Sorry, Mark," says Eduardo, "were you asleep again? It's two in the afternoon; I thought ‑‑ oh, do you work nights?"

"I work whenever I feel like it," answers Mark, feeling uncharitable. They'd tried it out, Mark coming into the office from nine to five, but in the end everyone had agreed it was best for all involved to let Mark work from home as much as possible. "Considering I'm the CEO of my company and all." 

Eduardo's eyes widen, and Mark can practically see him revising his opinion of Mark. "That must be nice."

"Yeah," says Mark. "I'm kind of busy right now, so if you ‑‑ "

"I locked myself out," blurts Eduardo. He looks down at the ground, shuffling his feet. "I left my keys inside, and Christy's at some networking thing, so I was hoping it would be okay if ‑‑ could I?" 

"Could you camp out at my place until she gets back?" Mark shrugs. "Okay. Sure."

Eduardo gives him a bright smile, and Mark's momentarily thrown by its intensity. "Thanks so much, Mark. I'll make it up to you, promise." He steps inside and toes off his shoes, then, to Mark's dismay, casts a surveying glance around the condo. "It's very . . . lived‑in."

Mark's already settling back onto the couch and reaching for his laptop. "Just dump everything on the floor if you need space. Unless it's electronic; don't touch anything that's blinking or metallic‑looking." 

"I know what a computer is," says Eduardo, picking up a stack of PS3 discs from the floor. "I didn't go to Harvard for nothing." 

The casual name‑drop surprises Mark, but he tries not to let it show. He knows Christy's type ‑‑ flashy and overdone in a way that screams _I used to be a nerd but now I'm beautiful and rich_ ‑‑ but he can't get much of a read on Eduardo at all. Silicon Valley is all about embracing innovation and saying _fuck you_ to tradition; Eduardo looks out of place in the middle of Mark's living room, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Mark's entire wardrobe.

"What is it that you do?" asks Mark, finding that he's genuinely curious.

Eduardo pauses in the middle of organizing Mark's video games. "I‑banking, mostly," he says, "some consulting here and there, nothing too exciting." 

"Hm." Mark knows what investment banking is, of course, but that doesn't mean he's actually interested in it. He lets the conversation peter out and goes back to coding, glancing up occasionally when Eduardo crosses his field of vision. It's kind of weird and presumptuous of him to be tidying up Mark's stuff, but it also means Mark doesn't have to do it himself, so he'll let it slide. Afterwards, Eduardo sits at the dining table and takes out his iPhone; he's so quiet Mark pretty much forgets he's there.

It's maybe an hour later when Mark's interrupted by Eduardo waving a hand in his direction. "Hey, Mark," he says. "I don't want to impose any further, but do you happen to have anything to eat?"

Eat. Food. Mark's stomach rumbles with the reminder that he hasn't eaten since that morning's pop‑tart. "There's some stuff in the freezer," he replies. "Get whatever you want, drinks are in the fridge."

Eduardo goes to the kitchen, pulls open both doors, and makes a horrified noise. "Is this all you eat? Frozen polenta, string cheese, Red Bull ‑‑ Mark, none of this is actual food."

"My still‑being‑alive would beg to differ," says Mark, shrugging indifferently. It's not that he doesn't know how to cook, it's that he doesn't have the time, and ever since Erica broke up with him, he definitely doesn't have anyone to impress. "Actually, if you could throw me a string cheese, that would be great."

"There's a bodega down the street," says Eduardo. "I'll be back in ten."

He returns with a paper bag full of groceries. Mark raises his eyebrows when he sees Eduardo lifting out a carton of eggs ‑‑ Mark doesn't have a good track record with perishables ‑‑ a carton of orange juice, a loaf of bread, and what looks like half of Mark's mother's spice rack. 

"Let me make you a proper lunch," Eduardo says, already turning on the stove. "It's the least I can do."

The omelette turns out to be a lot better than string cheese. Mark isn't even all too annoyed that he has to put his laptop aside to eat properly. Eduardo takes the empty plate from him afterwards, looking pleased, then parks himself on the couch next to Mark and takes out his phone again.

Around five‑thirty, Eduardo's phone pings with a new message. "Hey, Christy's almost here," he says, getting to his feet. "It was really nice of you to let me stay here, Mark. I appreciate it a lot."

"No problem," says Mark. He's expecting Eduardo to go for a handshake, so he's caught off‑guard when Eduardo touches his arm instead, right above the elbow. Strangers don't touch Mark because they're strangers, and friends don't touch Mark because he's Mark. This kind of familiar touch is . . . unfamiliar.

"We should do this again sometime," says Eduardo. It sounds like a question.

"Okay," says Mark. The skin on his arm tingles where Eduardo touched him. "At least I'll have actual food next time."

Eduardo laughs and closes the door behind himself.

\-- 

Mark isn't a natural at making new friends. He can count the number of people he considers _friends_ on one hand, and most of them he's known for upwards of five years. Between Dustin, Chris, Erica, and Sean, it's pretty much the upper limit of what Mark can handle in terms of human interaction. 

Having Eduardo and Christy next door is different, to say the least. The only things Mark knew about his previous neighbor was that he was a systems analyst with two cats, but with Eduardo stopping by every other day, Mark practically knows his entire life story. Born and raised in Brazil, majored in economics at Harvard, married Christy right after graduation, lived in New York for two years before coming to California. 

"NASA was always her dream job," Eduardo explains. "I could either quit the firm and come with her, or get a divorce and stay where I was."

Mark contemplates this for a moment. "Tough choice. Was it worth it?"

"Was Christy worth it, you mean?" Eduardo laughs, a little oddly. "Christy is ‑‑ she can be a lot to handle sometimes, but I wouldn't be anywhere without her. A job's a job, but I knew I couldn't lose her."

"It must be nice," says Mark. "Being married." 

Eduardo's eyes sweep downwards, and he blushes. "It really is, yeah."

Some nights Mark is standing on his patio, nursing a beer or a smoke, when Eduardo and Christy get home from dinner. They look happy, hands and mouths all over each other, and they'll wave at Mark before disappearing into their front door. Those nights, Mark goes to sleep on the couch because it's better than being woken up at five a.m. by the thumping of furniture, the bedroom noises that leak through the wall. Christy's a screamer; Eduardo isn't audible unless Mark listens closely. Which he doesn't.

Other nights, though, all he can hear from their condo is arguing. They argue about anything and everything: Eduardo's dad, Christy's parents, Eduardo and Christy's future offspring, the coffee table Eduardo bought that Christy hates, the way Christy tries to control everything about Eduardo's life. Mark finds it immensely distracting, but even more than that, it's embarrassing to overhear. Better to just get drunk and blog about it instead of having shouting matches for hours on end.

Eduardo, for some reason, insists on acting like there's nothing wrong.

"How's Christy?" asks Mark after one fight, more interested the way Eduardo gives his answer than the content of it. He's pretty sure he heard dishes breaking the night before.

"She's fine, she's good," says Eduardo, a smile on his lips. "Thanks for asking." He twists his wedding ring around his finger a few times, then puts his hands in his pockets.

 _Is she really_ , Mark almost says, but stops himself. It's none of his business, after all. 

\-- 

Somewhere between marathon bouts of coding, brief periods of unconsciousness, and visits from Eduardo which more often than not end in him haranguing Mark to take care of himself, Mark meets up with Erica for lunch. It's become a ritual for them to hang out every few months ‑‑ their breakup having been an unmitigated disaster, somehow they've actually managed to work out as friends.

That Thursday it takes him longer than he'd anticipated to work out a tricky bug, and he ends up being about twenty minutes late. Their usual place is an Asian fusion bakery in Santa Clara; it's early enough that they still have the better pastries and Mark orders two coffee buns and brings them over to the table where Erica's sitting, head bowed over a book. 

"Hi," says Mark, holding out the saucer in her peripheral vision. "I got caught up in work, I'm sorry, thank you for not leaving."

Erica closes her book and looks up. "Hearing you try to apologize never gets old," she says, taking a coffee bun. She's dyed her hair black, and Mark's struck by how good it looks on her ‑‑ then again, he's always found her exceptionally pretty. "How go the video games?"

It's an old joke, but it helps to get things moving. Mark talks about the company for a few minutes, then picks at his lunch while Erica talks about the archival work she's doing at Stanford. Mark doesn't care much about history, but he recognizes Erica's dedication to preserving everything the Byzantine Empire ever produced, so he tries his best to listen appreciatively and not interrupt. 

They're on their second round of pastries when Erica's phone starts going off repeatedly. "Seriously, Cam," she says at last, silencing the ringer and dropping the phone into her purse. "Stop _worrying_." 

"Who's Cam?" Mark leans forward, frowning. "Why is he calling you every five minutes like you owe him money and he's out for your kneecaps?"

Erica gives him a wry smile. "Cam is short for Cameron, which is short for the possessive idiot who is convinced that if he lets me out of his sight I'm going to run away with my ex. Which ‑‑ no offense, Mark ‑‑ is pretty much never going to happen." 

Mark knows, logically, that Erica must surely have dated other people in the three years they've been broken up, but this is the first time she's mentioned anyone by name. He looks down at his plate and tries to think of what to say. Finally he manages, "It's good you met someone."

"Thank you, Mark," says Erica. "I know you mean it." Her expression softens a little, and she touches his hand briefly. "It would be good for you, too. Three years is a long time to be alone."

"I'm not alone," says Mark, defensive. "You're acting like I'm some kind of antisocial hermit who lives in a cave and doesn't have any friends. I have Dustin, also Chris ‑‑ "

"Who were your college roommates back in the _18th century_ ," says Erica. "I'm talking about having someone to come home to at the end of the day. Someone who'll listen to hours of incomprehensible technobabble ‑‑ "

"It's not incomprehensible ‑‑ "

" _Someone_ ," continues Erica, "who will make sure you eat regular meals, and forgive you when you act like an asshole, and put a blanket over you when you fall asleep on the couch." She smiles, a little ruefully. "Someone who likes you so much they don't want to let you out of their sight."

Mark is on the verge of telling her that that kind of person doesn't exist when he realizes, very abruptly, that they do, and drops his fork with a clatter.

"Mark?"

"Nothing. I just had a ‑‑ " Mark's brain is re‑arranging the contents of the last few months, shuffling them into something that makes an abnormal amount of sense. "I just had a breakthrough." 

Erica raises her eyebrows, but doesn't ask. "I guess I should be glad we actually made it through a meal without you running off to code," she says, and Mark doesn't correct her assumption. "I should head back now, anyway. Cam's probably going around nailing missing‑person fliers to every telephone pole in sight."

"Okay," says Mark. He starts stacking their empty dishes, and Erica comes around to his side of the table, leaning into him for a few seconds. It's not quite a hug, but it's the most affection Mark can stand to accept in public. Erica steps back, gathers her things, and they head out into the parking lot.

"Try to take care of yourself, Mark," she says, right before she drives off. "And for the record, I'm not wrong about what I said. If I could fall in love with you, so can someone else."

Then she's gone, and Mark's left standing in the parking lot, clutching his keys like a lifeline.

\-- 

Dustin calls Mark a dreamer. Chris calls him unrealistic. Sean calls him the next Bill Gates. 

The point is this: Mark has _ideas_. Give him the hint of a spark and he'll draw it out, nurture it, turn it into something real. He'll look at a limitation and see a challenge; he'll look at a roadblock and see an endless spiral of possibilities, each more intriguing than the last.

The point is this: Eduardo spends more days in Mark's condo than he does in his own, more hours talking with Mark than with his own wife. He's attractive, almost painfully so, but even more than that, he's capable of following Mark's complicated train of thought. When Mark admits he hasn't eaten, Eduardo wastes no time in cooking up a feast, and when Mark wakes up on the couch, there's a blanket over him that wasn't there before. Mark's life never felt particularly empty before, but now it somehow feels full, and there's only one thing that's changed.

The point is this: once Mark realizes what a spark can become, there's no putting out that fire.

\-- 

It's a while before anything happens. Mark can be impulsive when provoked ‑‑ he'd torn Erica to pieces on his blog the night they broke up ‑‑ but when he's the one acting first, he likes to make sure he's prepared. 

Now that he's actively looking for them, Mark can see the signs everywhere. 

The way Eduardo smiles at Mark when he thinks he's not looking. The casual invasion of Mark's personal space like it's Eduardo's right to be there next to him, leaning his head against Mark's shoulder. The DVDs and blazers and meteorology journals he leaves behind at Mark's place instead of bringing them back to his own. 

Eduardo's been making himself at home in Mark's apartment for months and Mark never noticed.

For a while, Mark considers keeping the status quo. His friendship with Eduardo is steady, and he's starting to get to know Christy, too. 

It's after a bad fight when Eduardo comes over, looking miserable. Mark lets him in, then goes to the fridge and returns with a beer. 

"Thanks, Mark," says Eduardo, rubbing at his face. 

"You can have the bed if you want," says Mark. 

"But it's your bed," says Eduardo.

Mark leaves the door open like he usually does, but now that there's another soul in the condo

He can hear Eduardo moving around, sighing, shuffling papers. 

\-- 

Mark feels something thrumming inside of him: the nascent seed of an idea, unformed, ready to become something amazing. 

"I can't," says Eduardo, pulling away. "Mark, I can't."

"Because I have a dick, or because I'm not Christy?" Mark feels almost dizzy from the kiss, the way he does when he's on the very edge of a breakthrough, overcome by the sheer possibility. "If it's the first, don't waste my time. But if it's the second, I can live with that."

Eduardo looks at him in disbelief. "How is it so easy for you?" he says, pushing his hands up into his ridiculous hair. "I'm ‑‑ I'm _married_ , Mark."

"So you keep saying." 

\-- 

Six months later, Facebook goes live at every American university. Three months after that, they're international. Somewhere in between, they get their millionth member, and Mark's face ends up on the front page of the _New York Times_ under the headline COMEBACK KID. Dustin and Chris get quoted in the article, but Mark shuts himself in his office until the reporters have left.

A year and a half after that, Facebook opens registration to the public. Mark loses five pounds from the stress of keeping the site afloat, adopts a shelter cat, and makes it through Erica's wedding without physically or verbally assaulting the groom. He's working constantly; it feels good.

He doesn't spend all his time pining after Eduardo. He's got too much to worry about: Facebook's growing exponentially, and pretty soon they're going to have to hire more developers and more managers and PR people and interns who know how to make decent coffee, and 

There's a girl he sometimes sees studying at the local cafe. Pretty, Asian, with long black hair and a sweet laugh, probably a medical student from the books she's reading. Mark is going to ask her out one of these days, once everything with the site calms down long enough for him to have a social life.

One Saturday she shows up to the cafe all dressed up, like she's heading downtown, and Mark thinks about Christy for the first time in ages.

When he gets home that night, he opens up Facebook and checks his news feed, then runs a search. It's the first result on the page, and Mark clicks through.

> **Eduardo Saverin**   
>  _Networks: Harvard University, Singapore_   
>  _Sex: Male_   
>  _Relationship Status: Single_   
>  _Birthday: March 13_   
>  _Hometown: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil_

Eduardo clearly hadn't known the picture was being taken; he's facing away from the camera, mid‑conversation, and his tanned skin is washed out from the flash. He has a glass of champagne in his left hand, and he's wearing a suit, just like he was when he showed up on Mark's doorstep all those years ago. Mark can only see the side of his face, but he thinks Eduardo might be smiling.

Mark clicks away from the page before he does anything stupid, like adding Eduardo as a friend or going through Eduardo's photos or messaging him and saying, _do you remember the night I fucked you over my kitchen counter and the only name you said was mine_ , because Eduardo looks ‑‑ 

He looks happy.


End file.
